


DuckTails: The Life and Loves of Della Duck

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 15:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: A pirate had knotted her. A goddess had blessed her. Her co-pilot (Yes, he's a pilot) had done dirty, dirty things to her in a spooky mansion. Here are the omitted tales of "The Life and Times of Della Duck."These are the tales her family will never know.





	DuckTails: The Life and Loves of Della Duck

“I was born here you know.”

These are the words Della remembered.

Smoke swallowed them whole, reminiscent to whales and lesser underwater creatures. Its odor stained the air, the mattress, its sheets, and they were too lazy, too comfortable to leave their room.

A small consequence. All of the rooms in the complex were polluted in some shape or form. Their attendants were ignorant of smoke’s travels, easy and quietly and with no resolve, especially when multiple smokers thrived in one building, but had they known, none of them would’ve cared.

Della did, which was why she rolled on her side, “Were you now?”

“I was.” His closed eyes gave no sign of aggravation. His black nose, almost button shaped but a mix of button and heart, didn’t twitch in agitation, “My Mamá was a patron of this establishment. It’s where she met Mamá Maria.”

“Did she?” Her feet swung over the edge of the bed. It was too easy for her to forget the difference in height. He hadn’t ordered the shorter mattress like she requested. Her neck swung back, gazing lazily at him, “Gonna assume Mamá Maria was famous here.”

“Famous?” Loud, rusted laughter stormed through clouds of smoke. He rolled on his side and wrapped a single, furry arm around her waist, pulling her towards him without much of a thought, “She was infamous, mi querido pato, the most renowned woman in all of Havana!”

If it’d been any other day, morning, or afternoon, or not, she may have twisted his arm around his back, putting as much force as was allowed onto him until he yielded. Della was tired, though she had awaken earlier. Her stretched muscles ached. She felt a stream between her legs and remembers she needs to pee, or should pee soon.

She wanted to close her eyes. She didn’t want to dream. His breath fogged her neck. She giggled, despite her tiredness, and giggled more when she felt his erection throb pitifully on her tail feathers.

“Are you serious,” Della yawned. She craned her neck to send him a warm-hearted glare that accomplished nothing except for giving him a reason to smirk mischievously.

“What can I say?” His teeth gleamed under dull light, “My libido shames rabbits.”

With a chuckle she debated her reasons. For him, for them, for whatever this was. He was a pirate. She was a pilot. He was taller, massive compared to her.

She debated her reasons, for him, for them, for whatever this was. He was a pirate. She was a pilot. He was taller, massive compared to her, and these physical dissimilarities didn’t put either of them off. Ancient rust colored his fur, giving off a vivid gleam under murky light. His teeth were ivory. His eyes were a pair of cut axinite, glittered in blue skies.

“Hm…, a fair assessment,” she said, rolling on her side to bury her face in his chest.

* * *

 

Sex. Love. Fuck.

One was like the other. One was more than the other, heavier, loaded. One was a vulgar connotation, interpretation of events. Under the sun, they performed each to their hearts’ content.

She straddled him. Humming, she roamed over his prickly soft fur until she reached the tip. What a ride it was to feel the differences of their textures. Her moisturized feathers (multiple oils and lotions were applied) were gentle to the touch, but not to the point of crumbling beneath his claws. He teased them, setting each nerve ending aflame, and she sat on top of him, letting ebony claws to create gentle streaks through her ivory.

Her lips were propped on top of him, around him. It tickled the way she folded around him, though she was not long enough or large enough to emerge completely with him in this manner. A dark, humorous moan gurgled from  his throat, like dirty water from a rusty faucet, and he rested his hand on her hip.

“I must say this is a consistent joy to indulge in.”

“What do you mean?”

He panted, forcing abstract thoughts to collect, “The way you appear.”

“I appear?”

“I mean…,” he blinked. “Querido, por favor deja de rodar,”*  his hand’s absent twin gripped her hip and held her firmly, making it impossible to move.

An eyebrow quirked in response, “I think I understand you a little better.”

“Mammals hang everything out. Always there, always...visible,” sentences started to collapse on top of each other. She had found a way to tease him through his grip, “You ducks...avians...can cover it all up, under fluff, within yourself.”

“Good thing for us, I’m not covered with fluff.” She smirked. It was her smirk strengthened his length beneath her, and she lurched forward in shocked pleasure, digging her fingers into his wrists.

“I want you.” Lust compounded his axinite, and he raised her, relying on her strength to steady her above him. This was their play. He followed obediently. He didn’t close his eyes as she descended. He didn’t quiver. A shudder danced between his teeth when he began to sink into her, inch by hideously garaguntan inch. She raised her head to the ceiling, breathing steadying breaths, and let out a strained giggle as her walls repeated similar work to adjust to him.

It was mind numbing in the best way. Each time felt like the first time, careful, slow, tender, yet approvingly rough in some parts. Her walls made him tingle. He felt every convulsion, every vibration. She sucked around him, pulsing like her frantic heartbeat, and her moans delighted him. He held strong. Time was inconceivable at this point. A minute felt like an hour, an hour struck a full day.

She reached the end, smirking down at his dumbstruck expression, “I think you’re going to have to gear up for round three.”

It hurt the first time. This was what Della gathered. Her quick, sharp rolls sent tremors up her spine. Sweat beaded on her feathers, causing a slick film to glisten on her shoulders and stomach. All was stiff, solid in her. He throbbed painfully, and she enjoyed every second of it.

She alway felt  full with him. Full in a different way. With his girth and length, flexible movement was a learned skill rather than an open task for her to complete at her liberty. His tip pounded on her door - leaving another bruised cervix for her gynecologist (Thanks Dr. Honeybadger!) to examine.

If her breasts were prominent, they would’ve bounced joyfully. A terrible ache was filled to its peak, but she didn’t stop moving, she refused to. His grip on her hips tightened, and though he had been given specific instructions to not try to take the lead from her, she felt the tiniest shift from below. Just an inch. Maybe two. His thrusts were timed perfectly, exactly enough pressure to send an additional streak of lightning up her spine.

Her back lurched downwards. Her vision became distorted. He became distorted - the type of distorted that rose when she began to fall on the other side of the peak.

“Ah, Della, seems like you’re losing momentum.”

“No, no, you don’t.”

“Hmm…,” his thumb rubbed the empty space between her groin and thigh.

“I told you to obey.” Sweat clung to her forehead, grabbing her bangs with every thrust, every roll, and soon, her bangs were plastered to her forehead like glue, “Obey, me -,” his name floundered.

He had done what he had been told not to do, and part of this was her fault. Her self control tended to dwindle at this point. She yelped when his claws dug into her thighs without breaking the skin, and he thrusted sharply, meeting her energetic rolls with slow thrusts.

“D-,”

“Lo sé.”

“Sweet gods.”

“Lo siento todo.”

“You can, can’t you?” Two fistfuls of belly fur pained him pleasurably. She almost met his stomach, rocking like one of the rickety toy rides at the supermarket. She didn’t care. She wanted to meet him, match him, maintain their equilibrium until their bodies were spent.

“Stubborn woman.” He growled, slipping a finger underneath her. He found a swollen bulb, the only thing visible aside from his cock, and stroke it gently with the tip of his claw. Della gasped. A tight, water gasp that made her tip her spine backwards.

There it came. That rush. That suffocating tightness. She squeezed him with every racing convulsion, tightening, smothering around him. Her senses deafened, and she reached to the sky, mouth forming a 360 degree circle. Her fingers scratched his skin, tugged on his fur, pulled some free even, and she didn’t see his smirk, self-satisfied and hungry, as this was the opportunity he was waiting for.

A wince and a sigh. This was normal for him. He was larger, much larger than her, and when nature called, in its painful knotted way, it called as everything splashed inside her while the head gorged on its own blood.

Painful? Yes. But it was a pleasurable pain. The type of pain she got behind and was ready for more every time.

Collapsing on his stomach, she didn’t protest when his arm wrapped lazily around her, and he aligned his back with the stacked pillows. His movements were less thoughtful, more careless - reckless even. Her orgasm subsided as his initiated.

“What good memories hide within these walls?”

Della’s last gasp ended on a chuckle. She raised her head to look at him, fully wrapped in his embrace, “You’re talking about your birth,, aren’t you?”

“Hm...maybe.” He chuckled, “Or I could be referencing  everything else to have transpired here? Births, murders, conceptions, so many lies buried here.”

She hummed her consent. He was soft, furry, made for a great pillow. The clock read seven a.m., but darkness reigned from what she was able to see through the ratty curtains.

“As long as nothing of that lies in me,” she murmured.

With his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, her beak snuggled comfortably in his neck, Della slept.

She’d get herself free another later hour, slipping out the back and gripping his sword in triumph.

**Author's Note:**

> I never imagined my first dip into erotica/smut would be ducks, but here I am. Also, happy birthday to my dearest friend!


End file.
